


All the substance of his house

by a_la_grecque



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Bickering, M/M, Sharing a Bed, book elements also included, dubcon!wing grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_la_grecque/pseuds/a_la_grecque
Summary: Aziraphale takes Crowley up on his offer of a place to stay, and the two of them slowly realise that when Adam put the world back together, he didn't get it exactly right.





	All the substance of his house

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> My id is very attached to Crowley's white yuppie flat from the book, so he gets to keep it here.

"You can stay at my place, if you like." 

He made the offer, but didn't get a proper answer for a while. Partly because Aziraphale got distracted by the arrival of the bus, and delightedly produced some bus passes for them both, pulling them out of his sleeve with a flourish. 

Crowley felt mildly affronted at the idea of behaving like a legitimate passenger, but took it nonetheless. It turned out that Aziraphale's miracles weren't quite up to scratch, since it was a day out of date, and he had to sweet talk the driver anyway. 

His own influence wasn't working as well as it should, either, as he discovered to his horror when the bus driver steadily refused to take them past Lewknor Turn. 

"All change please, gents, all change. This is the last and final stop." 

Crowley loomed hopefully at the driver. "Are you ssure?" he asked, lowering his glasses slightly. 

"Dead sure, mate." 

"Are you really sure?" Aziraphale asked plaintively.

"Hundred percent. Unless you lads want to take a ride all the way back to Chipping Norton." 

Aziraphale's face brightened and for a second Crowley thought he was going to take them up on the offer. 

"No, angel!" He plucked at Aziraphale's sleeve and half-dragged him off the bus. "We need to go back to London." 

The bus driver laughed, and called back "Have a good night, ladies!" before driving off into the night. 

Crowley steered Aziraphale towards the bus shelter. "Come on, might as will sit comf- might as well sit while we wait. Just try not to breathe in through your nose." 

"What  _ is _ this place, Crowley?"

"Lewknor Turn." 

"Oh, well, thank you so much for that illuminating answer, my dear. Do you really think we can get a bus to London from here?"

"Oh yeah, should be one along within fifteen minutes."

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive." Although he tried not to use it if he could avoid it, Crowley made a point of being well informed about public transport. It came in handy surprisingly often in his line of work.

"It doesn't seem likely. Who on earth would put a bus stop here?"

Crowley coughed awkwardly. "Er, well..."

"I see." Aziraphale shook his head. "The M25 wasn't enough for you?"

"Well, you've got to keep your hand in, haven't you," Crowley muttered. 

They sat in silence for a while, passing the rapidly emptying bottle of wine between them. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, "Did you mean what you said earlier?"

"Er..." He'd said quite a lot of things earlier. "Which bit, exactly?"

"The bit about staying at your place. Do you, would you mind?"

"Course I meant it. Course I don't mind." He had meant it, but he was no longer sure it was such a great idea. "Stay as long as you like." He was almost certain that would be a terrible idea." 

"Thank you, Crowley. That's very kind." 

Crowley flinched reflexively at the compliment. He wasn't used to having his motivations questioned like that.

Aziraphale sighed. "I don't think I could quite manage the bookshop just yet, if it's as bad as you say it is, my dear." 

"Oh, yeah, it's..." Crowley cast about for something helpful to say. "Here's the bus!" 

He didn't have to work too hard at distracting the bus driver. He hardly seemed to care that they didn't actually hand over any money before he issued them tickets, and he turned a blind eye to the open bottle of wine in Aziraphale's hand, as well as the one poorly concealed up his sleeve. The guy probably hadn't even noticed he'd been driving over a flaming arcane sigil instead of the M25 earlier in the day. 

Aziraphale insisted on sitting on the top deck of the bus, right at the front. Bathed in the orange sodium glow of the streetlights, they silently toasted each other all the way to Marble Arch and then walked unsteadily back to Crowley's flat.

*

"Well, here we are," Crowley said, feeling oddly nervous about Aziraphale's reaction as he fumbled with his door key.

"Oh," Aziraphale said as he followed him through the door. "It's very...white."

He didn't say as much, but it was heavily implied that it was a sterile, surgical sort of white, not the kind of white that really makes the most of the natural light during the winter.

"Er, yeah," said Crowley, "I suppose it is." He resisted the urge to add that if it was a gloomy November day Aziraphale would really see the benefits of it. He tossed his keys onto a side table, kicked off his shoes, and wondered what exactly it was you were supposed to do with houseguests. He turned around, and said "Make yourself..." Aziraphale was already rifling through his fridge. "... at home."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's indignation was clear even if his voice was muffled. "How can you have three different kinds of caviar but no milk?"

He could have explained it was because the type of human he modeled himself on would only drink black coffee for stimulation (and that only when a line of coke wasn't socially acceptable), but it was easier just to... he waved his hand.

"Check the door, angel."

"Aha!" Aziraphale reemerged from the fridge triumphant. Apparently Crowley's powers were a little off as well, because his face quickly fell. "Don't you have whole milk?"

Crowley just shrugged.

"Still, fancy a spot of tea?"

The teapot that had hastily materialised in one of his cupboards wasn't quite right either, apparently glass and stainless steel were no match for traditional china.

Aziraphale managed just fine though, bustling purposely around the kitchen and leaving Crowley to perch himself awkwardly on the sofa, after giving the houseplants a warning look when they started rustling their leaves. The sofa was actually comfortable as well as stylish, an indulgence he allowed himself to facilitate better tv watching, but it felt all wrong just then.

Everything was a little bit off, in fact. Normally he enjoyed looking over the gleaming white open-plan expanse, with the satisfaction of an identity well-constructed. Now, with Aziraphale in it, the place felt simultaneously too big and too small, the disguise paper-thin. There were some things that were definitely really off. He was absolutely sure he didn't normally have a fluffy rug to sink his feet into, and he definitely didn't have a photo of himself and Aziraphale on the coffee table. It must be the angel miracling up his own home comforts, although he didn't think the phrase 'make yourself at home' was usually meant to be taken so literally.

The rug was pure Aziraphale, he thought, wriggling his toes comfortably. The photo though, that didn't make much sense. He peered at it more closely. They were both smiling in it, which was wrong for a start. He didn't think the two of them had ever knowingly posed for a photo, he was fairly sure the only photos they'd ever been featured in were the grainy black and white kind that got dead-dropped in grubby brown envelopes. He was also fairly confident he hadn't worn a top hat since the nineteenth century. Aziraphale was wearing one too, but you could never guess anything from Aziraphale's fashion choices. The angel was really beaming though, he didn't often look that happy.

"Here we are then!"

Crowley looked up to see Aziraphale giving him a much more tentative smile from behind a crowded tea tray. The tea cosy absolutely had to be the angel's doing, Crowley was positive he'd never allow a purple and orange striped monstrosity like that into his flat. It was so offensively ugly that he was fairly confident that if it tried to stick around it would quickly pick up on the aesthetic vibe and dematerialise itself.

"Tea, dear?"

Crowley didn't want any, but accepted a cup anyway. He declined the milk and instead loaded it up with several spoonfuls of sugar, then opted just to hold onto the cup to warm his hands and keep himself busy.

Aziraphale took his time adding milk and sugar to his exact liking, then settled himself in the expensive recliner next to the sofa and let out an appreciative sigh after his first sip.

"That was... quite a day," Aziraphale said.

Crowley didn't even know how to respond to an understatement like that, so he just nodded and watched Aziraphale taking his shoes off. Even with one hand holding his cup, he still made an effort to properly unlace them, and arrange them neatly next to the chair. One of his toes was poking through a hole in his socks, and he rubbed at it gently.

"You'd think he might have fixed my socks when he gave my body back," he said reproachfully, pulling them off too.

"I thought we'd addressed the part where he's not actually inherently good?"

"Yes," the angel said, wiggling his released toes into the rug, "but he's not supposed to be inherently evil, and that was definitely borderline evil. I like this rug, dear."

The question was on Crowley's lips when Aziraphale leaned backwards. Crowley realised what was about to happen just in time to miraculously steady the tea.

"Oh my," Aziraphale said, from his new horizontal position, "This is a lot less comfortable than it looks, isn't it?"

He struggled to right himself, and said brightly "At least I didn't spill my tea."

Minor and major disasters averted, the two of them continued to sit and drink the tea in companionable silence. Well, Aziraphale drank the tea and looked companionable, Crowley was fretting over whether he'd made a terrible mistake to invite the angel in. It wouldn't be the first time a casual decision had led to unforeseen and hefty consequences for him.

Aziraphale interrupted his ruminations with a cavernous yawn.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear," he said, covering the encore with the back of his hand, "I think events are catching up to me. I can't remember the last time I slept."

Crowley's eyes widened with shock behind the glasses.

"It must have been at least a week, maybe two..."

Crowley gasped audibly.

"Oh, really, my dear, there were more important things to focus on. In case you didn't notice, we were trying to thwart the apocalypse."

Crowley had definitely noticed, but hadn't considered it sufficient reason to stop getting a solid eight hours of sleep a night, even if he had to bend time and space a little to get it.

He knew he and Aziraphale had different ideas about sleep, but he didn't realise the angel was this bad. He'd always had a tendency to prioritise things like reading over sleeping, but he thought he'd broken him of the worst of that in the early days of the Arrangement, when he'd reminded the angel that infinite time meant infinite time, so he could sleep at night and still read every word ever written if he really wanted to. Still, even angels couldn't push themselves indefinitely. They had to crash some time, and Aziraphale was crashing hard, right in front of him.

"You look done in, angel. Let me show you your room."

Aziraphale blinked owlishly and slowly stood up. Crowley led the way down the hall. "Bathroom's just on the left there," he said, indicating it with a wave of his hand, "And the spare room is right...here." He stopped, gesturing at a blank space on the wall. A blank space on the wall that definitely, absolutely had been a door last time he'd checked and every time he'd walked by it since he first moved in. Not that he'd ever actually made use of his spare room, but he'd felt it was the kind of thing he ought to have. And know when he finally needed it, it was gone. Could rooms simply disappear if you didn't use them enough?

He  _ thought _ at the wall, first menacingly, then cajolingly, finally begging desperately. It made no difference, it stubbornly continued to be just a wall.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale, there's something very strange going on. I-"

The angel was now swaying on his feet, glassy-eyed. He wasn't going to be any more use in solving this tonight.

"You're just going to have to stay in my room, that's all." Assuming he still had a bedroom, that was. He put a guiding hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and steered him to the end of the hallway. His bedroom door was still there, at least. He opened it up and thankfully his bedroom was as well. Aziraphale stumbled inside, and Crowley followed.

His bed dominated the space, super-king size beds had a tendency to do that, especially ones with complicated wrought-iron headboards. It didn't quite fit with the minimalist aesthetic, but it certainly had its uses. Uses he probably shouldn't be thinking about with Aziraphale in the room. The floral patterned quilt spread over it, however was definitely new, and must be part of... whatever it was that was going on. Again, it was something that could have been reasonably attributed to Aziraphale, but the angel was clearly in no state for miracles. He quickly touched the sheets, and reassured himself that they, at least, were still the same scandalously high thread count he'd chosen for himself.

His brain slipped and slid over all the inconsistencies, trying to put them together and failing, like he was forcing mismatched jigsaw pieces together. Maybe events were catching up with him too. That or the bottles of wine they'd liberated from Tadfield airbase. It started with just one, but it would have been rude not to take a few for the road. You probably shouldn't trust any wine that American soldiers would drink, even if it had appeared to be a perfectly pleasant Californian red. He halfheartedly tried to materialise an extra bed, but wasn't surprised when the attempt failed. He couldn't even manage an inflatable mattress for the floor.

Sharing it was, then. There were worse things than sharing a bed with Aziraphale. Like using the pull-out bed he'd had installed in the office, preparing for a houseful that would never happen (or the times when the work he didn't do was so demanding that he couldn't even afford the time it would take to move from office to bedroom for a power nap). That was an option, but not one he was prepared to consider. In fact he was fairly certain he was never going to go in the office again, and if rooms in his flat were going to randomly disappear then really that should be the one that went first...

Yet again, Aziraphale distracted him from a potentially runaway train of thought, this time by starting to strip. Crowley hadn't even started catastrophising about the lack of pyjamas, he never normally bothered with them but somehow the thought of being naked in a bed with Aziraphale felt deeply inappropriate. Ridiculous, really, the angel had seen him in far more revealing forms than his nude human one.

Aziraphale apparently had his own ideas about what was acceptable, although thankfully he stopped when he got to his underwear. And of course, Aziraphale was exactly the kind of person who would still wear an undershirt. He stared meaningfully at Crowley for a second before climbing into bed, although Crowley wasn't sure exactly what meaning he was supposed to get from him.

"'S more than big enough for two," Aziraphale mumbled, yawning again. He snuggled himself up against Crowley's favourite pillow. "G'night." He appeared to fall asleep almost instantly.

Aziraphale was right, he supposed. The bed was definitely more than big enough for two, three, four or even five if you had them arranged right. Not that he was going to think about that now. He took his time getting undressed, and then unearthed a promotional t-shirt and pair of shorts he'd acquired in the course of a lengthy business gambit some time ago (boy, had the the idea of corporate engagement in sporting events backfired on him then) and pulled them on for...modesty? safety?... appearance's sake and climbed into bed.

The bed was big, but Crowley still found himself lying so close to the edge of it that he was practically hanging off it. He didn't share beds with people, at least not for sleeping, and definitely not his own personal bed. He was conscious of the apparent acres of crisp cotton between them, but at the same time he could feel the heat from Aziraphale's sleeping body diffusing through the sheets. His basest instincts urged him to crawl towards that warmth and bask in it, but he ignored them and sent them hissing back into the darkness. He settled for inching slightly away from the edge and curling in on himself, his back turned to the angel as he waited for sleep to claim him.

Crowley prided himself on being a good sleeper, he'd had a lot of practice at it, and one memorable occasion he'd proved that he could, in fact, sleep on a washing line (he'd made quite a bit of money by winning that bet, too). Unfortunately, none of his practice and skill was much help now, because it turned out that Aziraphale was a very bad sleeper. Spectacularly so.

Not in the traditional sense of waking easily, he appeared to be sleeping soundly enough, but he appeared to have no sense of the proper mechanics of the thing. He certainly hadn't mastered the part where bodies are supposed to be paralysed during sleep, and Crowley found it almost impossible to fall asleep himself with Aziraphale mumbling and flailing beside him. The angel was also a terrible blanket hog, leaving Crowley fighting a furtive and ineffective battle to keep himself under the covers.

He napped fitfully a few hours, until Aziraphale's wings manifested unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Hissing and spitting feathers, he admitted defeat and retreated to the sofa. It wasn't his first choice of action, guest or no guest he certainly wasn't above exiling Aziraphale to the living room, but he had remained resolutely unconscious despite Crowley's increasingly violent shaking and prodding.

He stuck it out for a while on the sofa, even though he couldn't find his favourite blanket. It was perfect for TV marathons, but it absolutely didn't match with the aesthetic of the flat so he kept it stashed down the back of the sofa when it wasn't being used. At least, he normally did. It was just another small part of the increasingly irritating weirdness that seemed to have infected his flat. He wondered idly if someone down there was starting to play a very long punishment game, and would keep randomly shifting things around until he slowly went mad.

He tucked his feet into the end of the sofa in an effort to keep warm, the night was unexpectedly chilly. He wondered if part of the strange changes would include materialising some spare bedding somewhere, but he highly doubted they would involve anything that useful. He'd never bothered with having them himself, his beds were always clean and perfectly made because he expected them to be.

He flicked on the tv, but there was nothing on. Nothing worth watching, anyway, unless you were in the market for a diet and weight loss plan sold by an improbably taut and orange American. He wasn't. He could have chalked that up as a point for his incremental punishment theory, but really he knew he only had himself to blame for infomercials. At least they were better than the 24 hour news channels, which were a singularly human creation.

He shivered theatrically at the thought, and reassured himself that he really was totally sure that there was no such thing as an afterlife for demons, so there was no chance that Ligur was now going to be haunting him for all eternity. His dramatic shivers became real, from the cold as much as anything else, he was definitely soothed by the fact that this was all too subtle for someone like Ligur. Too subtle for hell in general. Well, too subtle for anyone else in hell, anyway. Giving up on the idea of sleep entirely, he rationalised that if he got back into bed with Aziraphale he would at least be warm, so he padded back to his bedroom.

Aziraphale still had his wings out, sprawling fully across the bed. The covers were all in tumbled disarray at the bottom of the bed. The bed might be big, but Crowley wasn't sure if it was big enough for him and Aziraphale and Aziraphale's wings. He was going to have to get hands-on, even if it wasn't really the done thing to touch someone else's wings without permission. He gingerly touched the edge of Aziraphale's left wing, felt the muscles flex and lift as Aziraphale pulled it away with a start and a moan. Crowley froze, but Aziraphale didn't wake, so he slipped into bed and grabbed for the covers. As he did so, he couldn't help but notice that the angel's wings were hopelessly disordered, the feathers all ruffled and out of place.

He didn't know how the angel could stand it. Solo wing care might be a bit tricky, but it was easy enough with a good mirror and practice. Even if you kept your wings tucked away in another dimension most of the time, that was no excuse for looking sloppy. Besides, they itched if they weren't groomed properly, a full-body phantom itch. Crowley could feel it starting even just from looking at Aziraphale. Without thinking, he reached out and smoothed one of the pinion feathers back into place. Aziraphale twitched, then relaxed. Crowley kept his hand in place, then worked it a little deeper, running his fingers across the ruffled leading edges of Aziraphale's flight feathers and knitting them back together.

Shaking slightly, he lifted his other hand to Aziraphale's right wing. Both hands moving simultaneously, he tended to the angel's dishevelled plumage, scarcely daring to breathe. Perhaps it was a bit wrong, what he was doing, but he was a demon. Wrong was where he lived. Besides, the angel clearly needed it. If he was going weeks without sleep, it didn't bear thinking about how long he'd gone without proper grooming.

It was intimate, almost shockingly so, in a way that he and Aziraphale had never been before. Six thousand years of drinking and heated discussions, yes, and he could certainly say that he knew Aziraphale as well as he knew anyone, but their shared physical pleasures had always been purely gustatory. Almost always.

They'd shared a kiss one night, back in the early days of the Arrangement, ostensibly part of Aziraphale's proper training in temptations. There might have been more, Crowley couldn't remember. They'd both been hideously drunk, and there'd been a sort of tacit agreement that they'd let the alcohol run its natural course in their bodies, and he supposed he must have blacked out at some point. The hangover lasted for two days, he remembered that.

And he remembered what it felt like, kissing an equal for once. An enemy, perhaps, but a worthy one. It was nothing like kissing humans, which at worst felt like work (because sometimes it was) and at best like an ephemeral distraction. He had a vague recollection of Aziraphale laughing at his best temptation moves, although not unkindly. He supposed he couldn't have been that bad, although the two of them had never spoken about it again - he hadn't had any complaints about the quality of the temptations that Aziraphale carried out on his behalf.

The angel never did lose control the way humans always would, he was sure of that. He'd never felt Aziraphale the way he was right now, loose and open, his wings utterly relaxed under Crowley's skilful fingers. He let his fingers sink all the way in, teasing through the soft down. Just for a second he pressed his face against the base of Aziraphale's wings, breathed in. Dusty. He shouldn't have expected anything else.

He brushed his thumbs gently against Aziraphale's sensitive filoplumage, casual yet deliberate. Aziraphale shuddered but didn't wake, and Crowley suddenly felt warm. Not from the mere transference of body heat, but a glow that was filling him from the inside out, accompanied by a deep-seated sense of appreciation. It almost shocked him into stopping, but it was a nice feeling even if unfamiliar. He kept working, the action and the warmth so soothing that he was barely aware of falling asleep with his hands still buried in Aziraphale's feathers.

*

Aziraphale was up before he was the next morning, looking irritatingly refreshed. He brought Crowley a cup of coffee though, which would almost have made up for it, if it weren’t such terrible coffee.   


Crowley took a tiny sip, grimaced, and asked “Sleep well?”  


“Oh yes.” No mention of the fact that Crowley had had his hands all over his wings. “You?”  


“Not particularly,” he growled.

“Oh? That’s not like you.”  


“No, well, there’s a lot of stuff going on that’s not quite-”

Aziraphale spoke right over him. “I think I should really go to the bookshop today. Face the worst of it. But I need, would you mind awfully coming with me, my dear.”  


“Oh, I’ll come, of course.” He had no particular desire to go back there, but it would be a h- a lot easier to do it with Aziraphale standing next to him, fully corporeal.  


He dressed quickly, haphazardly pulling on the least singed items of clothing from yesterday, and then they walked over to Soho. It was a nice day, and neither of them were in a particular hurry to confront the wreckage. Almost offensively sunny, really. Even with his glasses on, Crowley had to squint. That’s why it took him a split second longer to realise that the bookshop was back.  


Aziraphale was already turning on him.  


“You told me it had burned down, you bastard! What was that, some kind of ruse just to get me in your bed last night?”  


Crowley was short on sleep, short on caffeine, and short of patience. “It bloody well had burned down! As if I’d want you in my bed, angel. Keeping me up half the night with your bloody wings flapping in my face.”  


“My WINGS?” Aziraphale’s voice had risen by an octave. People were staring. “What do you mean my-” He finally noticed they had an audience and continued  _ sotto voce _ . “What do you mean about my wings. What on earth are you talking about?”  


He unlocked the bookshop door with a discreet wave of his hand and dragged Crowley inside.  


“What do you think you’re doing, ranting about my wings in public? I never had my wings out last night.”  


“Yes, you did. You kept waking me up with your tossing and turning, then at three in the morning...whoosh. Wings. In my face.”   


Aziraphale looked utterly bemused.  


“Well I’m sorry if I disturbed your beauty sleep, my dear, but you brought it on yourself by lying to me in the first place.”  


“I wasn’t lying to you, angel. I watched it burn. Here, smell my jacket, it’s probably still got the soot on it. Why would I make that up?”

Aziraphale didn’t take him up on the smell test offer, but his expression softened visibly. “But if it burned down, then why is it back?”  


“I don’t know, angel,” Crowley sighed, “There’s something not quite right going on. At first I thought it was some kind of punishment, but then why would they give you back the shop? After we stopped it all yesterday… things are almost back to normal, but then there’s some things going on that are just plain wrong.”  


“Wrong?” Aziraphale echoed, “You think there might be something wrong with the shop? I have to check the books!”   


“Of course you do,” Crowley said. Some things would never change. “But if you’re going to check the books, then I’m going to take a nap.”  


“Fine. You know where the sofa is.”  


Crowley did. And he wasn’t best pleased to see his missing blanket slung over it. “Aziraphale!”

“What?”

He was all set for some angry questioning, but he realised Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to explain it any more than he could. “Nothing, angel.”

“You didn’t see anything wrong with the books?”  


“No, no. It’s fine.”  


He flung himself down on Aziraphale’s sofa and reached for the blanket. Apart from being in utterly the wrong place, it seemed totally unchanged. He pulled it over himself and settled in, Aziraphale’s sofa had always been somewhat conducive to napping, and that didn’t seem to have changed either.

He had no immediate way of knowing how much time had passed when Aziraphale gently shook him awake later. Going by normal human timescales it was probably a few hours, but where he and Aziraphale concerned it was just as conceivable to spend several days on a nap and a quick inventory check.  


“Feel better after your nap?”  


“Mm. Whassat?” He sat up and rubbed his face. “No,” he lied. “What?” He could definitely still use a few more days of sleep. “What’s happening? With the books?”  


“Well,” Aziraphale said, “You were right that there’s something strange going on.”  


“What’s wrong?”

“Whatever it is, it’s completely cleaned up my back section.”  


“Oh, Aziraphale. Your prophecy collection? I’m sorry,” Crowley said, and meant it.  


“No, no, they’re fine. It’s… more of a metaphorical cleanup. The pornography’s gone.”  


“Oh. Well that’s… remind me why you had the pornography again?”  


The angel shrugged. “Moneyspinner. If you know the right people.” 

“And how did you convince your lot to let you get away with it?”  


Aziraphale’s smile was almost wolfish. “Ah, well, Gabriel knew how I feel about customers. So I convinced him that if I had it, it would be a perfect way to stop it from getting into more… corruptible hands.”   


Crowley’s smile was definitely wolfish. “What a devious little bastard you are. Knew there was a reason why I liked you.”  


Aziraphale didn’t reply to that, but he looked almost pleased. “Well, none of that matters now. I seem to have acquired a number of pristine first editions of classic children’s literature instead.”  


“Oh, that’s…” he realised he didn’t really know what it was. He’d never paid that much attention to Aziraphale’s trade. “A shame?”  


“Not at all, my dear. They might be worth even more than the smut. So get up, I’m taking you to tea at the Ritz to celebrate.”  


Crowley wondered if he could decently sneak his blanket along to the Ritz, but decided it wouldn’t be so bad if it stayed at the bookshop for a while longer.

*

The maître d greeted Aziraphale by name (Mr. Fell, of course, not his real one), and of course there was a table available for them. So far, so normal. He hadn’t wanted to let on to Crowley, but he was a little worried by the mysterious changes at the shop. The pornography disappearing, was it possible that Gabriel knew what he’d been up to? And if he did, why would he switch it all out? Crowley thought maybe he was being punished, but what if Heaven was doing the punishing. It didn’t feel like that much of a punishment, but Heaven didn’t exactly specialise in them these days. 

He pushed his thoughts away as they entered the dining room, which was reassuringly familiar. It would have taken a lot more than an apocalypse to change this place. He ordered champagne tea for two, deciding that they might as well live a little now that there was a little more living to be done. 

“I hope they hurry up with it, I could murder a scone,” Crowley said. 

“Sc _ o _ ne,” he corrected, absently.

“No it’s a scone.”

“Really, my dear, I think you’ll find that the correct pronunciation is sc _ o _ ne.” 

Crowley had a belligerent set to his mouth that usually meant that he was gearing up for an argument, and Aziraphale was almost willing to have it with them. Luckily the waitress headed them off at the pass by arriving, not with scones or sc _ o _ nes, but with the champagne. 

He thought he’d successfully shut Crowley up with a large glass of it, but then…

“Scones,” he muttered.

“Well, really,” Aziraphale started. 

Crowley nodded at him “Behind you. They’ve arrived.” 

Aziraphale’s righteous anger turned to joy as they placed the heavily laden stand of cakes, sandwiches, and scones onto the table. It was a simple pleasure, in some ways, but one of life’s better ones. 

He hesitated between the fruit and the plain, currants were more indulgent but plain really let you savour the richness of the cream and the jam, with no unnecessary distractions. He plumped for a plain one, and Crowley wasted no time grabbing a fruity little number. 

Aziraphale sighed with pleasure when he realised it was still warm from the oven, and perfectly split. He took his time with it, carefully assembling the jam and cream layers in just the right way, then carefully took a dainty bite. Perfection. He’d polished off the first half completely before he even looked up at Crowley again. 

Crowley was watching him, one last piece of scone in his hand, like he’d been waiting for Aziraphale to look up before he ate it. It was a horror show, an insult to scones, the jam and cream added in the wrong order and just sort of splotched all over the place. 

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped as he watched Crowley cram the last piece into his mouth, and barely chew it before swallowing. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t even think about finishing his own scone. It was times like this he wondered why he even hung around with the demon. He was a nasty habit, he supposed. Well, perhaps not really a nasty one, but definitely a questionable one. One that he couldn’t entirely give up, even if he tried. 

Crowley did have his good points, even if they were buried deep. And there were other… bright spots to hanging around with him. He slowly sipped champagne as his mind skipped back over the centuries, and forced himself to look up at Crowley again before it reached its inevitable destination.

He could sense Crowley's golden eyes behind the glasses, locked onto his. Crowley raised his knife, liberally smeared with jam and cream. Slowly, deliberately, his long tongue flickered out and licked it clean.

Well, that really was too much. It was unconscionable, it was obscene, it was positively  _ lascivious _ . It was beyond the bounds of all decency, it absolutely shouldn't be allowed in public. Aziraphale reddened in spite of himself as his thoughts strayed unwisely down the path of thinking what might happen if it was allowed in private.

Crowley gave him a slow, crooked smile. "Something bothering you, angel?" he asked.

"You can't behave like that." Aziraphale's stage whisper could probably be heard in Belgravia. "This is the Ritz!"

Crowley stretched, cat-like, his wrists bending in ways that humans probably shouldn't be able to bend, and leaned back in his chair.

"I do believe you're right, angel," he said. He looked around. "And yet you'll notice that no one gives a d... no one cares." He gestured over at the elderly couple on the next table, the man was slurping the last dregs of his soup directly from the bowl while his wife looked on fondly. "Look at them. People like this behave badly just to prove they can get away with it."

Aziraphale fiddled with his napkin. "Well, I care," he said.

Crowley raised a speculative eyebrow, then reached across and grabbed the other half of Aziraphale's perfectly prepared scone.

Aziraphale gasped. "Crowley, what are you doing! You're not... are you  _ deliberately _ trying to provoke me?"

"Would I do such a thing?"

Aziraphale snatched back his scone. "Yes, I believe you would." He bit into it and was reassured to discover it tasted just as good as the first half had. 

Crowley laughed at him, not unkindly, and it broke whatever strange tension had been building between them. They handily demolished the rest of the scones, and the cakes, and even made a respectable attempt on the sandwiches. 

Conversation turned to more important matters, such as the greatest cakes they had eaten through the ages, and trying to puzzle out what was happening to the two of them. They couldn’t reach meaningful conclusions on either topic, but the afternoon passed agreeably enough. 

“Shall we go home then, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. Neither of them questioned whether he meant they should go back to Crowley’s flat.

*

Crowley stopped to collect his post on the way back. It hadn’t been his top priority over the last week, but there was only one letter waiting. And it wasn’t even addressed to him.

“Since when do you get your post delivered here, angel?” he said, passing over the envelope as they waited for the lift. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, tetchily, “I didn’t even know your address until yesterday. In fact, I still don’t know your actual address.” He glanced down at the envelope. “Really, Crowley? You just happened to get this number.” 

Crowley shrugged. “It’s a big development, the numbers go up kind of high.” 

“I never had you pegged as an arsekisser.”

“I’m not.” Not anymore. At the time it had seemed like a simple enough way to try and curry favour. It had even worked, after a fashion. 

The lift arrived, and Aziraphale tore open the envelope while Crowley drummed his fingers impatiently on the console. The angel frowned.

“This isn’t mine, it’s yours.”

“But it’s got your name on it.”

“Well, I definitely don’t get bills for a TV guide subscription. Besides, it’s not my name.”

“It is,” Crowley said, “Well, your fake name, at least.” 

“No.” Aziraphale thrust the letter under his nose. “See, AJ Fell. I’m AZ.” 

“But I’m AJ Crowley?” 

Somewhere in Crowley’s mind a penny finally started to drop. It was on a Rube-Goldberg machine of a ride, but it would get there eventually. 

The lift doors opened. 

Crowley unlocked his front door, still puzzling over it. He gave the flat a quick check over, but there were no new changes evident. He was still refusing to enter the office, so who knew what was going on in there. He briefly considered sending Aziraphale in there on some errand, but he wasn’t that cruel. 

Aziraphale, apparently still full from tea, had bypassed the kitchen and settled himself on the sofa. Evidently he didn’t fancy the recliner tonight. Crowley decided he didn’t fancy it either, and perched himself on the other end of the sofa. 

Aziraphale unfolded himself and reached for the strange photo that was still sitting on the coffee table. “Since when do you have a framed photo of the two of us, Crowley?”

“I don’t,” he said, “it’s…new.” 

“Well, it’s a nice one of you. You’d think I’d remember posing for it though. Where do you think it was taken?”

“Marylebone.” Crowley didn’t know he knew it until the words were out of his mouth. “On the steps of the town hall, you know, where they do the…” Oh shit. 

The penny landed with a crash, like it had been hurled from the top of the Shard. 

They looked at each other with identical expressions of horror as realisation dawned, and said simultaneously:

“Why would I marry you?”

“Why would I take your name?”

They glared at each other.

“What’s wrong with my name?” 

“What’s wrong with  _ me _ ?” 

Aziraphale declined to answer and announced instead that he needed to take a shower before disappearing into the bathroom.

Crowley put the television on for company while he was gone. It was some panel show or other, but it didn’t really matter which one, because all the contestants immediately broke into howls of demonic laughter. Crowley pushed the off button immediately, but they carried on for some minutes anyway, sending his thoughts down unsettling avenues. 

Aziraphale eventually emerged from the shower looking damp and disturbed. 

“I have news,” Crowley announced, “I’m almost certain it’s not my lot. But they definitely know.” 

“Then it must be my lot,” Aziraphale said faintly. 

“I’m not sure it’s them either.” 

“But who else could do it?” 

“The Antichrist.”

“Adam?” Aziraphale was incredulous. “Why would he want to punish us?”

“What if it’s not a punishment, angel?” 

“What do you mean, not a punishment?” 

Crowley chose not to get indignant. “What if he didn’t just put things back the way they were, what if he put them back the way he thought they were? It explains the books, doesn’t it? That’s exactly the kind of thing he would expect to be in a bookshop.” 

“But why would he think we were married?” 

Crowley declined to answer that, so they sat bookended on the sofa in stunned silence for a few hours. Eventually Aziraphale quietly announced that it was probably time for bed. 

To the surprise of neither, Crowley’s sleeping arrangements were still stubbornly resistant to miraculous alterations. Neither of them suggested the possibility that Aziraphale could simply go and stay in a hotel, or back at the shop. 

Aziraphale eyed Crowley suspiciously as he took off his glasses and climbed into bed. “I suppose you think I’m fair game, now that we’re married?” 

“What, like I’m suddenly going to have my wicked way with you?”

“Well, yes.” 

Crowley laughed, even though some of his deepest darkest thoughts had been sauntering vaguely in that direction over the past few hours. 

“I think you have some strange ideas about what married people get up to, angel.” 

Aziraphale didn’t look particularly mollified. 

“Fine,” Crowley said, grabbing a few of his many pillows and stacking them down the middle of the bed to form a makeshift barrier. “There, now you’re safe.” He rolled over so his back was towards the angel. “I don’t know what you’re worried about, I didn’t exactly ravish you last night.” For certain values of ravish, anyway. He turned off the light.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly, “I was going to read for a little while.”

Crowley clicked the light back on. “Fine,” he said, jamming his glasses back down over his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean… I can manage without the light.” 

“It’s on now.” He wasn’t even angry, not really. 

Some moments passed quietly, and then Aziraphale said in a small voice “Crowley?”

“Mm.”

“Is it true, what you said about my wings being out.”

“Mmhm.”

“It wasn’t on purpose, you know.”

“Mm.”

“And did you…” Aziraphale paused. “Did you fix them for me?”

Crowley flushed scarlet, thankful that the angel couldn’t see his face. “Mmm. Yep. Looked like you needed it.” 

There was another long silence.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

* 

Sleep came more easily that night. Aziraphale awake and quietly reading was much easier to deal with than Aziraphale asleep and flailing wildly. It was Crowley’s turn to wake first, and he was only mildly surprised to find that the pillows had been flung aside and Aziraphale was pressed against his back with the fingers of one hand tangled in his hair. 

He decided not to mention it, but to get up and start a pot of tea instead. Or he would have done, but he didn’t really know how to make tea, so he settled for leaning against the doorway and glowering at Aziraphale until he woke up. 

“Time we were going, angel. Even if we can find a coercible cabbie it’s a long trip back to Tadfield.” 

Aziraphale was a picture of sleepy confusion.

“We need to go back, to speak with Adam, get him to fix this, remember?” 

“I remember,” Aziraphale yawned. 

Given his way, Crowley would have hustled him out the door immediately, but Aziraphale wouldn’t leave without breakfast, or packing a bite for the journey. His left leg bounced with impatience as he waited, looking out of the window. It was another perfect day, sunny and mild. A shame really, it would have been a perfect day to take the Bentley out for a spin, if only…. A slow grin spread across Crowley’s face.

“Angel,” he launched himself across the room and latched onto Aziraphale’s wrist, forcing him to drop the butter knife he was wielding. “Angel, we have to go right now.” 

“One second,” Aziraphale said, hastily cramming in one more round of marmalade toast before nodding his readiness. 

Crowley almost flew them both down to his assigned parking spot, hoping against hope that his hunch would be right. It was, the Bentley was there, and didn’t appear to have so much of a scratch was on it. In fact, there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with it at all as they drove north with all possible speed. It did play all three of Rachmaninoff’s piano concertos without any assistance from Freddie Mercury, but that was hardly a problem.

They made it to Tadfield in record time. Aziraphale didn’t say as much but Crowley was sure he was adding a little assistance of his own. The roads certainly did seem to be miraculously clear. Aziraphale put a hand on his elbow to slow him down when the reached the outskirts of the village. 

“No harm in taking it easy now, is there?” 

Even at a positively pedestrian twenty miles an hour they still attracted an angry look from one tweedy individual with a nasty looking dog. His look of disdain was familiar to Crowley but he couldn’t quite place it. There had been a lot going on during his last trip here, after all. 

It was easy enough to find the Young house, and in a stroke of real luck, Adam and Dog were still in the garden where they belonged. At least for now. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, “I thought that was all done with now.” 

“You remember us, then?” Crowley asked.

“Course, it was only at the weekend.” 

“We’re here about what you did,” Aziraphale said, a little more gently.

“I didn’t do anything! Not really, anyway. I put it all back the way it was.”

“Did you now?” said Crowley, through gritted teeth. 

Aziraphale shushed him. “Not quite, my dear. Things seem to have gone a bit wrong with us.” 

“How? You got your shop, an’ your car, an’ each other.”

Aziraphale coughed. “Well, that’s rather the issue, you see, we seem to be..”   
  


“We’re married,” Crowley growled. “You made us married.”

“Yeah,” Adam said, “Course I did.” 

“But we’re not married. Or at least, we weren’t,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Really? You were acting like you were married.”

“Because we were stressed out and miserable?” Crowley said, “That was because of the apocalypse, not because we’re married.” 

Adam laughed. You could see traces of his father in his face when he did so. The Other one. It was truly disturbing. “That’s not what married people are like. That’s parents. And I definitely didn’t make you parents. You’d be rubbish at that.”

Aziraphale looked guilty, and Crowley spared a brief thought for Warlock Dowling, wherever he might be. 

“It was because you care about each other. More than anything. That’s what married people are like.” It was a worrying mix of insight and wrongheadedness that could only come from an omnipotent eleven year old. 

“We’re really not married, though. At least we shouldn’t be.” 

“That’s not the important thing, angel. Can you fix it?” 

Adam stared at him. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I can do that anymore. Not even Dog does what I say now.” 

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Crowley hissed.

“I don’t know. Are you sure you don’t want to be married?”

Neither of them said anything. Dog started to work his way through a hole in the hedge. 

“You seem like you want to be married. Dog! Hey, Dog!” Dog took off running, and Adam followed. “Or you’ll just have to get a divorce,” he called back over his shoulder. 

They walked back to the car in silence. 

“Bloody wasted journey,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded. They settled themselves into their seats. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “I think you were right, you know. This isn’t really much of a punishment.” 

Crowley swallowed hard. “So this is it. The rest of our lives?”

Aziraphale’s hand brushed over Crowley’s knuckles, then he hooked his pinkie around his index finger. It was like an electric shock. 

“I think,” the angel said, “It might be.” 


End file.
